


heavy hand, heavy heart

by cellardweller



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Liches, Other, death knight au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-12-23 06:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11984490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellardweller/pseuds/cellardweller
Summary: Azeroth sits in the shade of the legion, its people trying to regroup and recover after losing so many and so much.Hope is a tricky promise to keep. King Anduin Wrynn arrives at the Frozen Throne to strike a deal.He is far from the only one.The thing about sacrifice is it's a wildcard. It could take some of you, or all of you.





	1. I

In all the annals of history after this point, every word written is going to testify with ferocity that Anduin Wrynn simply had no choice. The Little King, protected and watched from birth, who wanders off and gets himself into trouble time and time again. Whose triumphs consistently incur large debts. Who tries so hard and fails half of the time, trusting foolishly and selfishly, putting the very people at risk that he has sworn to protect-  
  
“I can hear you thinking from here.” It’s a thunderous voice that interrupts his thoughts, cold and cruel. “Those thoughts come easily to you, and they will drive you mad.”  
  
The truth… The truth will always be that he chose this with little effort. It would be a lie to even say he felt backed into a corner. Desperate – absolutely. Everyone’s desperate. Desperate means nothing anymore.  
  
Bolvar Fordragon was the first and last man Anduin trusted entirely. His father, of course, but Fordragon was there when he wasn’t, he was there when the boy had nothing else. He survived and lived and grew by that trust and Anduin never gave up on it, even now.  
  
He had his moments of doubt, upon arriving at the citadel. Years had passed since the assault, and while the Scourge had thinned, they had not disappeared. Passed down through the chain was the secret knowledge of the new Lich King, Stormwind’s shining knight shackled now to a life that would destroy his legacy if the world only knew. It soured his name among some of his most favored, so quickly after the deed was done. Fordring, hollowed out with grief, said nothing more than Fordragon’s final words and a grave warning that his tenuous promise would hold fast so long as they leave Icecrown – and its King – in solitude.  
  
Anduin had every intention of honoring that, he did, but something happened.  
  
He took the steps slowly, one at a time, while the company bid an extraordinarily hesitant farewell, taking their leave as he had instructed. They would be long gone by the time the deed was done, gone home. Regrettably, if they were found they would be held accountable for his actions here, and they would suffer in his place, but he simply had no other choice. If he knew the way to the Lich King himself and the power to go it alone he would have, but it would serve no purpose to die before he even reached the steps. A small consolation to them – he would be suffering as well, in his own way. Immensely.  
  
Creatures stirred at him but made no move. Somehow, he knew that would be the case. There were certainly less here now, the Lich King having followed through on his vow in earnest to keep them at bay. A few ghouls and geists wandered around like stray cats, sparing him long, curious glances before moving on with groans from their broken throats. A few behemoths in the distance which he gazed at in awe, but they would hardly noticed something as small as him.  
  
So it was with the silence of the dead and a chill that buried itself deep in his bones that he walked through the doors of the citadel, wincing as they shut behind him.  
  
Anduin lowered his hood and looked at the shell of the heart of resistance he was never allowed to come near, the place where the heroes dug in their heels and ran a path of ruin through the tower. The ramparts still stood, the great bulwark between the new and the wounded crusaders and the vanguard of the Scourge that no doubt surged forth, the cannon fodder. A few weapon and armor racks were left behind, as well as basic materials they would not miss. Toppling the seat of power and crushing the forces within meant the victorious did not need to clean up, they simply left and never looked back.  
  
If he focused hard enough, he could hear the clash of battle, the low words between troops, last words and rites. It was the only spot within the citadel with any consecration to it and even it was so weak he had to strain to feel it. Fordring had stood there, Lady Jaina, his father.  
  
All gone.  
  
That thought slammed into him like a greathammer. His heart thundered and labored to pound against his chest. He gingerly wrapped a hand around one of the bulwark’s great spikes to steady himself but his grief was a violent wave rolling over him again as though it were the very day he lost his father. His fierce end was the crescendo of that day, when so many others were lost. When Jaina disappeared later he had come to a point to expect it, and was not so shocked but nonetheless devastated. They were never coming back and they would curse him for what he was about to do, and that’s the first time he had that thought uncensored, feeling the full weight of that shame push him to his knees.  
  
Tears fell from his eyes, the first time since that day he’s felt compelled at all to let it out. He glanced behind him at the door and thinks, there is still a chance he could turn and go back, forget about his moment of madness and go home. He could posture with all of his authority and banish any curiosity of his dark journey from anyone who dared ask and move on. He could go on and try to fight the absolutely unstoppable with what little power he has, while his people die around him.  
  
He turned back to the long hallway before him, blue ice riming every surface it touched, and caught eyes with a spectral form, skeletal but formless. It stared at him with lich-fire eyes for a long while, then turned and moved on. Anduin shivered and looked away. If this was the path of least resistance, it painted quite the picture of what he could face otherwise.  
  
At least on the ground he could fan his hands out against the frozen stone and feel some of the lingering holy magic. Anduin rested there for a few minutes, basking in that echo of the Light, knowing it would be the last time he got to do so. Thankful.  
  
Slowly, he rose on shaking legs and steadied himself, wiping his face dry. So many good souls had perished already, having made the ultimate sacrifice for a future they received no promises on.  
  
It was time he made his.  
  
  
“There is still a choice to make, boy,” the Lich King says. “You do not come and go here as you please. You leave here, dead or undead.”  
  
As much as it stings to hear Fordragon address him so, he appreciates the candor. The journey up to the Throne was a long one, and in that time Anduin has gained such confidence that he almost feels it wasted here.  
  
“I want to fight the Legion,” he says.  
  
“You, and everyone else,” the Lich King responds.  
  
Anduin stares at him unafraid, though the burned visage of a man he once knew so well turned his stomach, it helped knowing this one would not kill him on sight. Arthas, he was never so sure.  
  
“Will this help me?” he asks in a small voice, almost pleading.  
  
“Will it hurt?” The Lich King says cryptically. He taps his claws against the arm of his throne and tilts his head. He looks out along the vast reaches of his frozen kingdom. “You will not be mindless, if that is what troubles you. You will remain you, though connected to me. You will have unimaginable power, the kind that will aid you in fighting those also with unimaginable power. Everyone who is turned, and who is given that power-” he pauses, seems to consider his words “-copes differently. You are responsible for how well you… adjust.”  
  
Anduin throws his arms out, gestures the platform. “I really have no choice here, do I?”  
  
“No.”   
  
“I have decided, then.”  
  
  
Later, seconds or days, Anduin Wrynn is thrown from the crown of the citadel, and is dead before he hits the ground.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! I'll have the next one up soon.

It was always a fierce curiosity that dominated Anduin’s thoughts whenever he found himself in the company of Highlord Mograine. First it was the novelty of an enemy-turned-ally, the stories all told about Death Knights and their absolute infamy – and here, here was their master – painting how he viewed them at first – wary would be the kindest word for it. There were times when he, selfishly, simply wanted to see what was under the helmet, for Darion Mograine never removed it in mixed company.  
  
Highlord Fordring had deigned to recount Mograine’s sordid past to him one night and it turned his curiosity to poignant sympathy. Now, on a gloomy day following his own father’s death as he and the Highlord stand with the war map between them, he senses a pull from Mograine he hadn’t before, a shared tragedy unspoken but still weaving a thread between them that would be hard to snap.  
  
A long stretch of silence had followed Mograine’s entrance, and Anduin could sense he was gearing up for something significant.  
  
“First, allow me to offer my condolences, King Wrynn, at the passing of your father,” Mograine offers simply, the forced disinterest of his voice tapering off to a near-whisper at the end.  
  
And there it is.  
  
Anduin hardly expects it, not from any lack of caring on the Highlord’s part – Anduin had learned much of the spectrum of emotion and understanding death knights contained after reintegrating themselves with the living and found them contemporaries in that regard, Mograine not least among them – but rather the fact that more pressing matters are at hand.  
  
Still, it touches him. “Allow me to offer mine as well. I understand that you and Tirion were close.”  
  
Mograine freezes at that, his fingers held in the air above the table where he’d been tapping before, discomfort etched in every curve of his form. Anduin’s heart beat nervously, terrified that he had offended the man, when he caught the guards on his periphery, watching close this private moment between the two of them. Then he realizes he used rather notable wording, opening up the Highlord emotionally in front of strangers without his concession.  
  
Anduin turns to them then and straightens. “Gentlemen, you’re relieved of your posts, please leave us to discuss our matters in private.” They balk for a moment, lingering just long enough for the Highlord himself to turn his attention to them in warning, and they rush away.  
  
“You, hm...” Mograine begins, taking some time to gather his thoughts. “You are thoughtful in your regard. Hesitant as I am to say it, not many of the living trust me in a room alone with them.”  
  
“Think nothing of it,” Anduin says.  
  
“I thank you for your condolences, as well. Tirion’s sacrifice is not the kind we see every day, nor your father’s. We must strive to be worth those acts.”  
  
A thousand doubts boil over in Anduin’s thoughts, having lain simmering for days. Would they ever be worthy?  
  
“And… For your father’s treatment of my knights during their reintroduction into the Alliance,” Mograine continues. He voices his thoughts slowly and carefully, as though walking on an eggshell. It’s so unlike the Highlord’s usual demeanor that it demands Anduin’s attention, and he intends to respect the vulnerability being shown to him. “I understand it was difficult at first. It was… challenging on all sides. After breaking free of the control we had been under for so long, it was with a cautious inclination that my knights left to try and reclaim a place in the homes they once had.”  
  
He does not include himself in that sentiment, notably remaining aligned to his own faction and it alone. With that, Anduin comes to another realization: Darion Mograine no longer has a Lordaeron to return to.  
  
“Your people, your father in particular, could have simply seen us destroyed, or forcibly disenfranchised.”  
  
“I believe it was always my father’s intention to take back what had been lost, including allies, his own people. I don’t think he hesitated for a moment in his decision, despite his vigilance thereafter.” He knew that in his heart to be true. Oftentimes back then, when he and his father spoke over supper, as much as they tried to keep politics out of it, he would air his concerns over the new knights. As much as he would bounce back to the old worry that they may ultimately be unreliable, a classic – if a bit hypocritical – mistrust of anything that had been used as a puppet, he could not put himself too far above them in that respect. He always wanted to give them a chance, just as Anduin wants to do now.  
  
This random request of audience had come as a surprise, but Anduin was eager to speak to him exclusively. It felt like another challenge as a new king, to speak with other leaders as peers. Though the Highlord had a reputation of being reticent at his best and rather intense when provoked, this was proving to be a cordial, if bordering on heavy, conversation.  
  
“Though I have recalled most of my knights back into the service of the Ebon Blade, know that Acherus and its full might remain ready to assist you and your people in this fight, as much as it does for the whole of Azeroth,” he says with finality. He straightens and moves closer to the end of the table, reaching out to push pieces away from a spot on the large map.  
  
“Thank you, Highlord,” Anduin says, almost relieved that they would be moving on.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
A few more moments of silence pass as Mograine noisily moves pieces about on the map, setting up something Anduin cannot make sense of. He moves to take a spot next to the Highlord, to better see from his perspective. Instead of pushing, he waits.  
  
“I have parties scouting areas across the continents, King Wrynn. Some in Northrend, though more in the southern regions.”  
  
Anduin watches as he traces paths with his finger as he speaks, indicating all the locations of his people. A few on the coast, he notices, at least one near each major city, many more in Lordaeron and other areas of high Scourge activity. The few in Northrend are positioned around the citadel like gargoyles.  
  
“Though at first, I had my fears about Fordragon – whether he would pull us back into his control or let us remain free – I no longer worry much about that. However, we keep watch. There have been no matters to report; every incident seems to be isolated, and we eliminate them quickly,” he continues, voice low to a growl. “True to his word, Icecrown has become much of a prison for the Scourge who were not obliterated in the war, so most of the wanderers that my knights look for have been beasts, old souls, corrupted beings, that sort. Until now there has been no more overlap between the living and the damned.”  
  
“Until now,” Anduin echoes.  
  
Mograine points to a spot in Icecrown, along the great bulwark. “A coterie of my knights spotted an individual making their way to the citadel, alone. They could not quite identify who they were, but they moved and behaved as though they were about themselves.”  
  
“Living, most likely. Choosing to go back to the citadel on their own. For what reason?”  
  
“My fear is they were going to be turned by the Lich King. He is still within his power to do so, and may, if the volunteer is tempting enough.”  
  
“To be under his control?”  
  
“Well,” Mograine rocks back a little, considering the map in full. “Perhaps. We lost our connection to him back then and it has not returned, so I cannot say at all what he plans to do with them. Even free from his control, the newly turned run the risk of completely losing themselves. Without the guidance of either the Lich King or ourselves, they pose a risk.”  
  
“Depending on who this person is, their fall may be calamitous to the entire world,” Anduin mutters.  
  
Mograine turns to him in full, regarding him with his formless blue-fire eyes unwavering. “Troubling, right.”  
  
“Why bring this to me?” Anduin asks. He hardly expects favoritism from the Highlord, but there’s no reason to assume this person is not part of the Horde, and there are many more capable headhunters to find that out.  
  
Mograine slides his finger over to the Stormwind docks and moves a ship piece there. He pauses, then moves a few more to the shores of Northrend. “On two separate occasions, my knights have spotted ships bearing Stormwind ornamentation arriving on Northrend shores. Once, leaving from the Stormwind docks, and I had a knight follow as part of their retinue, but I have since lost any contact with him. I presume he’s dead, but that still remains to be seen until I go myself. We have not seen all those from the ships go to the citadel, but the evidence suggests that is where the passengers were traveling to.  
  
“Your ships, King Wrynn. Have you noticed anything strange in your city?”  
  
Anduin frowns. “No, but perhaps I should look a little closer.”  
  
With that, Mograine nods and swipes the pieces off of the map. “I would not put it past the living to go hunting for power they do not understand to fight the Legion,” he says, already stepping away, “But it is a dangerous game.”  
  
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Anduin says, watching as the Highlord begins to roll dark magic around in his hands.  
  
Those blue-fire eyes fix on him again. “This is a matter best confronted with allies, keep that in mind. You still have a few of my knights, so you know how to find me.” He’s grave in tone, summoning the magic slowly, stalling for time. “I leave this to you, King Wrynn, but be mindful.”  
  
“Anduin, please,” he says, almost regretting it as soon as it leaves his mouth. His father would not have offered that.  
  
A gate opens up in front of Mograine, swirling dark arcana whispering ambient noise from the other side of the portal. He looks back and nods. “Good luck, Anduin.” And he’s gone, the gate closing promptly after him.  
  
Anduin stares at the spot for a moment, heaving a great sigh. He leans back down on his elbows over the war map, lazily pushing pieces back to where Mograine had them before.  
  
He could not foul this, he could not fail.  
  
***  
  
Anduin rises from his body in a form that screams out in agony. Briefly, he looks down at his body in confusion, absolute detachment. It’s broken, all pieces of him shattered and cold, blood rushing from his eyes and mouth. It’s astounding in its honesty. Blue eyes open and unblinking, lifeless.  
  
He sees this and rages.  
  
He thought he knew pain. The body has lived through worse – bones shattered, rendered to a broken fragile mess carefully put back together. Pain had settled in since then, a phantom thing that never completely quieted.  
  
Now it has been stoked into a scream, a wail that won’t end.  
  
Hands come up as he curls into himself, trying to calm the firestorm of void energy raging in his heart.  
  
He watches his memories come and go like a performance, a story of living once more through all the misery that won’t be there to help him and all the joy he won’t remember.  
  
Faces he loved and lost fade like day into night, and some time later Anduin finds himself kneeling on the ground in a form that refuses to be ignored. His skin is acid, curling and shimmering like liquid sunshine in vibrant violent hues. It’s a familiar royal color, indicative of something that makes his body seize with a visceral repulsion. But it passes. And it swiftly becomes normal.  
  
Struggling to his feet, he shudders and stares down at the body underneath him. The pallid skin is already starting to stiffen – recently dead, then. The face is familiar in the way that smoke reminds you of fire, so the lich sighs and moves on.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey I'm not dead, sorry I said this would come soon and then disappeared off the face of the earth, I was taking a sabbatical I suppose

Anduin wanders in a fog, only distantly aware that he’s moving at all. Every step takes him farther from his place of creation (as far as he can tell) and he’s only somewhat terrified about the fact that he keeps trying and failing to recall anything before waking up on that cold ground.

That horror and misery slowly drift away like a retreating tide. Strangely enough, what that eventually leaves him with is a growing awe at the mountains around him, a surreal sense of peace. He slips into a quiet numbness in the shadow of the gate and plateaus of black ice. Shafts of brilliant blue reach through the teeth of the great saronite walls and bathe the frigid grounds in the muted sunset light. There is no sound but the howling of the wind and faraway life – growls and the song of permafrost weapons being forged and tested. He has never been to a place like this before.

Nothing bothers him.

He drifts eastward, towards a cluster of small dwellings. They’re all dark iron and sharp edges, and there is nothing living within sight. As he walks to a small necropolis towards the back, he hears a troubled sound. Most likely the reason this little village is empty.

There’s a cave carved into the mountain face and from it comes a long, loud guttural wailing. Pebbles and rocks shudder and fall from the mouth of the cave with every thump of a steady rhythm of impacts somewhere deep within. Anduin stops just before the darkness and stares in. There’s nothing that he can see yet, but a distorted voice heaves with great sobs, growling and choking on something Anduin suspects he might relate to.

If he gets close enough, he may be able to see the beast, for all the dull interest he has in such a thing. There’s no light but plumes of intermittent blue flame pouring from an open mouth, illuminating the scene moment-by-moment.

Before him stands a drake, not overly large but certainly no whelp. Cobalt-black scales glitter like the ice outside, with echoes of crimson here and there. Parts of the dragon are rotted away, exposing bones and sinew, petrified by the cold, even some of its face. Gold rings dangle from its long ears and horns.

Curiosity spurns him to raise a hand and call upon a power he’s only able to channel through muscle memory, as he tries to remember what is it as soon as he casts it he can’t recall, and it burns like a holy fire. A light shoots from his hand into the air above them and hovers, casting them in a bright glow.

Anduin stumbles, clutching the conjuring hand as it hisses and slowly turns back to shadow. He briefly wonders why he would do such a thing before a groan catches his attention.

The dragon shakes its head and slams it into the wall. It reels back and does it once more, with more force. It doesn’t seem to notice the light, more so that there’s simply new stimuli causing it pain. It doesn’t look up from where it is, ramming its head into the wall, to check its surroundings at all. By the looks of it, and the sounds from outside, the dragon has been at this for a while.

Anduin wishes for it to stop. He reaches into his own wellspring and pulls at the only magic he knows how to use, and shackles the beast.

It roars an unholy, deafening screech. Shadows roll and twist around its form until it’s prone to the ground, jerking against ethereal restraints. Anduin steps forward crackling with energy, one arm outstretched holding a trembling hand over the beast. It’s the only way he knows how to calm it. Yet, it grows more upset than before.

He can control it like this, down to its base thoughts. If he chooses.

After a moment the dragon writhes and shifts, its shape growing smaller and changing. Through a plume of black smoke a man is suddenly kneeling on the ground, forehead pressed against the dirt. He takes in deep, hiccuping breaths and lets them out in rolling sobs. Anduin releases the spell, curious.

The man falls onto his side, clawing at the cave floor, clutching at his own body.

Anduin puts the pressure back onto him, just enough to force him into physical calmness. He slowly approaches and kneels down, grabbing the man by one of his horns, smaller now, still protruding from his head. The man jerks back with a yelp and freezes at the pain. Anduin looks over him and can’t recall anything, but notes the sickly pallid overtone of his dark skin, eyes illuminated with blue fire, the small gold rings still tinkling against each other as he struggles weakly.

The man finally comes to a state closer to cognizance and stares at Anduin, the deep-set curve of his eyebrows giving away a confused anger Anduin doesn’t expect.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, you have truly done it, young prince.” His wide, blue-fire eyes are searching him thoroughly and he grows uncomfortable beneath the gaze.

Anduin roughly shakes the man by the horn again, drawing out a hiss. There’s a growing restlessness in his guts, amplified tenfold with every new detail he takes in of the man. The tattered black and red silks hanging off of his lithe body, the few gold bracelets he wears – a lion’s head upon one – and the rings, the groomed bit of facial hair halted just at the point of strapping. He’s processing all of this information like a starving man, a shadow of an impulse of empathy in his heart, and deeper – a latent fondness. Like standing at the edge of a cliff with the sudden urge to throw himself off of it.

“Speak,” he says, disguising the waver in his voice with a low growl.

The dragon gives him a sideways glare. “I would speak more freely if you released me, young prince.”

So he does, roughly shoving him back and putting several paces between the two of them. Out of the mouth of the cave, the sunset hues begin to wane, throwing everything beyond them in a cold blue light. On the horizon, an aurora flickers.

“I suppose young king would fit you better now, would it not,” the dragon says. He sounds, of all things, heartbroken.

A wave of exhaustion hits Anduin like a shield to the face. Something about the man has brought him from anger to woe in such a small, tumultuous amount of time that it’s all he can do to turn around and face him. The dragon’s standing, bent and tilted in pain, watching him carefully.

“I demand that you start making sense,” Anduin says quietly. _I wish_ , he had almost said, as if a reflex. _I beg you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again thanks for all the kudos and comments and stuff they make me so happy


	4. IIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet you thought I was dead, huh 
> 
> who's wrathion anyway

“I expected myself to be rash, beloved, but not you,” the dragon says. He’s looking down at his own hands now, pulling at the cuffs of his robe to hide the patches of absent flesh on his wrists.  
  
Anduin can’t stop looking at him now that he’s upright and somewhat more lucid. Despite his many injuries and the natural state of decay about him, the dragon stares at him with a smirk, confidence radiating. Unearned, so far as Anduin is concerned, but it suits him well. He desperately wants to reach out and touch him, and he smothers that sensation with cold apathy. He can’t even bring himself to recoil at the endearment.  
  
Unfortunately, it strikes something in his core. Deep within the void form he now inhabits, suddenly there’s a spark.  
  
“King,” he says instead. “Why would you call me king?”  
  
The dragon frowns at him for a moment. “You don’t remember,” he says. Not a question. “You’ve just turned, then. How long?”  
  
Honestly, Anduin can’t recall. All of his memories from before he entered this cave are so scattered and faint that they could just be his imagination. “Not long,” he guesses. “I think, not long before I found you.” Now that he’s been made to confront his tumultuous existence he can feel a disturbance in the air around him, crackling as he’s overcome by a wave of panic. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Come,” the dragon says instantly. He’s limping towards him with an encouraging smile. “Let us retire from this cave, first.” Brazen in his vulnerable state, the dragon slips an arm around his waist, steering him to the cave’s mouth with a grim frown.  
  
“Who are you?” Anduin asks, putting his own arm around the dragon’s shoulders to alleviate his pain.  
  
The dragon sighs. “I’m afraid I will not tell you my name until you can remember it yourself, my dear king.”  
  
They help one another sulk out of the cave, struggling under some invisible weight. Though his form is… not entirely physical, it seems it can be burdened by exhaustion just as well as any body can. Every moment more he spends with the creature at his side eases the existential anxiety however, and the memories commingling in his head start to develop some clarity. Curious. Out of a desperate desire for that to continue, he pulls the dragon in closer. The dragon, for his own reasons, tightens his hold on Anduin.  
  
The dragon stops him midway through the gathering of little ugly homes outside of the cave, gesturing to an elevated necropolis at the edge of the village. “That looks nice,” he says.  
  
Anduin stares down at him, tries to hold the dragon back as he keeps moving toward the structure, but the dragon drags him along up to the steps. “We’re staying here? Do you think that’s wise?”  
  
“I arrived a week ago,” the dragon says, dodging out of Anduin’s grasp and ascending the stairs. He looks back, frowning. “I obliterated everything and then went to the cave.” He turns his back and shrugs. “I think it will stay empty, as long as we are here.”  
  
Anduin watches him disappear into the necropolis with a heavy heart, a new feeling. “That’s… not like you,” he murmurs, quiet enough that only he hears it. In trying to recall the young man, he’s only become more confused, exacerbated by the flood of new emotions their meeting has thrust upon him. For right now, he’s content to stand outside in the cold. He still doesn’t know how he’s keeping himself together, as he watches slim shadowy tendrils escape from his form.  
  
Maybe it has something to do with-  
  
“Anduin.”  
  
When he glances back up at the necropolis, the dragon is waiting there at the top of the stairs, tilted impatiently. The dark of his skin illuminated by the blue fire braziers makes him look ethereal, like he’s not completely there. There’s a memory of the dragon wreathed in fog.  
  
Anduin lets that be for now.  
  
He shakes his head and remains at the bottom of the steps, taking in the sight of the decrepit little town, staring at the throne in the distance, and trying to stoke the fire in his chest. The dragon, from somewhere behind him, makes a thoughtful noise and disappears.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Despite his best judgment and generally neutral disposition regarding anything to do with the affairs of creatures with heartbeats, Darion Mograine feels somewhat responsible for the events unfolding within the council meeting.  
  
“He couldn’t have just _disappeared,_ ” Greymane said, gesturing helplessly to the whole of the atrium, as the small council mutters among themselves. There’s little order in their meeting, little enough no one notices the normally stoic Highlord Mograine keeping to himself with even more introverted intensity than usual.  
  
During a lull in the confused anger Darion slips out of the atrium and away from the meeting. He was there on a technicality anyway, having simply been one of many who have interacted with the King within the last few weeks. As fate would have it, he’s also the only one who absolutely incited Anduin to leave Stormwind, to his eventual disappearance. None of them know that.  
  
At the bottom of the steps waits Thassarian, his hand who remains in the capitol, who assuredly received his summons just moments ago.  
  
“You interrupted a very nice afternoon, Highlord,” he says with no heat, hand subconsciously wrapping around the hilt of his sword.  
  
“Is that not always the case?” Mograine responds. “I have questions.”  
  
“I might have answers,” Thassarian says. The man’s been on a prolonged vacation since the business with Draenor wrapped up, having served his time with the Alliance more than well enough to deserve some time to himself. _Time to myself,_ he used to say, _I’ve had more than enough time to myself in the decades since I’ve stopped aging._ Though his attitude shifted once Koltira left the captivity of the Undercity.  
  
“The patrol lost in Icecrown -- Sergeant Lark, in particular, what do you have on him?” Too many thoughts to parse out all at once, Darion throws out the first thing he thinks of. Investigation was never his strong suit, truth be told, and it was all he could do to stop himself from going into Icecrown himself and hunting him down.  
  
Now that - that is his strong suit.  
  
After a long moment of silence, Thassarian smiles. “Sergeant Lark? He was acting strangely the night before his departure,” he says. “Not as though it was his first patrol, but he seemed shaken by something this time.”  
  
Mograine rarely ever attended their festivities these days, but he remembers an uncharismatic lack of eye contact from the Sergeant. After years of the emotional turmoil thrust upon the death knights as a whole, small moments like that don’t strike him as out of the ordinary anymore. Perhaps they should.  
  
“Thassarian.” Mograine’s tapping a claw against his outer thigh as his trail of thoughts goes narrow. The man turns from where his attention has been caught by the sunset. “How has the thralldom been, for you? Still abating?” He almost doesn’t want to ask. It’s a tricky subject, considering many knights have their own voices aside from the faint whispering of the Lich King still rattling around. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell with a condition so long suffered, whether it’s become better or worse. Sometimes, they just lie.  
  
Thassarian smiles again, all relaxed posture and forced charm. He’s just as infuriating as his partner -- both impenetrable -- although Koltira is about as easy to talk with as a rock. “Thanks for the concern, boss,” he says quietly as he bows low, turns, and makes his graceful exit.  
  
Mograine lets him go without another word, simply because he knows even that was more than he could have hoped for.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“Dragon,” Anduin calls from the bottom of the steps.  
  
A few moments pass before the dragon appears from within the darkness of the necropolis, scowling. “You must remember me soon, young lion. _That_ will quickly grow old.” Still, he smiles. A little thing at the corner of his mouth. Even with the exposed bone and teeth, it’s very becoming -- besides, Anduin has no frame of memory to find it hideous.  
  
There’s an inclination in the back of his turbulent thoughts -- it would take a great deal to consider this particular creature hideous.  
  
He takes a few moments to think up something to say, but as the dragon stares on Anduin is overcome with anxiety enough that he turns to walk away. He gets no more than a few strides before the dragon sweeps once more into his field of vision, slim hands braced against what somewhat solid purchase they can find on his chest.  
  
“Just, wait,” he says. He pulls his hands away as though burned and slowly returns them to his sides in loose fists. There’s no significant height difference between the two of them, but the dragon seems to make himself taller, fluffed up. “Stay,” he says like a command.  
  
Anduin scoffs and gently bodies past him. Beyond them lay the vast frozen wasteland he walked not too long ago, the towering throne in the far distance. Uninviting as it was, he felt the overwhelming urge to go there. He could not sit still right now. And it could be his imagination but, does he feel colder the farther he gets from the dragon?  
  
“Anduin!”  
  
With a great, heavy sigh, Anduin turns and faces the dragon. He looks, oddly enough, desperate.  
  
“Stay with me, please.” The fluff is gone, as is the heat. “You’re too early turned. I will not risk losing you.” His voice wavers to a whisper by the end.  
  
He twists in impatience. To anchor himself, he crosses his arms and grips near his shoulders. “I don’t want to stay here, dragon. I can’t.” It feels like a bridge has been lowered between them, the open, vulnerable countenance of the dragon giving Anduin no option but to reciprocate. “I can feel myself-” he shakes his head “-slipping through my own fingers.” Anduin puts a shaking hand out, palm up, and the dragon watches as shadowy ribbons float up and into thin air.  
  
“Come,” the dragon says with a smile, putting out his own hand and beckoning Anduin towards him. “I can help you, beloved, I promise. You don’t need to leave this place to feel at ease.”  
  
Nothing seems more inviting than that. Another itch at the back of his mind assures that the dragon is true, that this man would not lie to him. All he has to go on is his instinct at this point.  
  
In the space of time that Anduin hesitates, the dragon takes a few wide steps and carefully enfolds his hand with his own. He pulls him into an embrace with an arm thrown around his shoulder as they walk back to the necropolis.  
  
The moon breaks through the full dark of the night, stars scattered like a splatter of blood.  
  
The throne’s pull abates. Anduin keeps his grip on the dragon’s hand strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyways uhhhh, if you're still reading this, thanks so much. sorry for the delay ;-;
> 
> I had a lot of school/life stuff come up so I stopped writing for a bit. I can't promise any sort of posting schedule but I have a quarter off from uni so I'll at least be, ya know, writing. 
> 
> also it's been a while since I've played wow so the characterization might be, I dunno. anyways it's gonna get real sappy from here on out so


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